She Won't Let Go
by reagancrew
Summary: Holly Stewart is more used to this dance than she'd care to admit. It haunts her dreams. A single phone call. It has the power to turn her entire life upside down. GailxHolly. Future Fic. Disclaimer: I don't own Rookie Blue or it's characters. Let me know what y'all think!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **Guys. Rookie Blue. These two. Ugh. My heart. I've been playing around with this idea for the past few days as I power my way through the seasons, trying to catch up. So let me know what y'all think. We'll see where this one goes.

Disclaimer: I don't own Rookie Blue or any of these wonderful characters.

* * *

She answers her phone as she always does, despite the late – cracking an eye open she checks the alarm clock's bright red display blearily – early hour. "Holly Stewart." Gail asked her why she didn't answer _Doctor _Holly Stewart. She'd just smiled and shrugged and let her girlfriend puzzle it out over the rest of dinner.

"Holly."

It's Oliver. Why is it always Oliver? And she's rolling out from beneath the covers before he's had a chance to say anything other than her name.

"Holly, there-there's been a – uh – an accident. A situation."

He's always so apologetic on these calls, as though he's sorry for the inconvenience, for waking her up.

"Where?"

And he knows, knows what she's really asking. "Gail, she –"

"Oliver. Where is she?"

"Mount Sinai."

"I'm on my way."

"Holl-"

But she hangs up because that is not part of the dance. Him telling her why it is exactly that he's calling her 3:54 AM on a Wednesday night. Oliver explaining how quickly she should get dressed and out the door. Whether she should speed. Whether she should walk. Whether it'd be better for her to curl back up in bed and pretend his phone call was just some horrible, gut wrenching dream. No. That's not part of the dance. She calls it a dance, except it isn't, not really. It's more of a one-woman show – a routine – something practiced and perfected and reliable. Jeans. Yesterday's shirt. A sweatshirt, the oldest, baggiest one she owns. The one Gail steals whenever she's home alone at night, but refuses to admit she wears. The one the officer wraps herself up in, sleeps in, whenever Holly isn't there to hold her, until the scent of the pathologist has been completely erased, replaced with a faint hint of Gail's perfume. A sweatshirt. Her sweatshirt. But she has to pull it out from under Gail's pillow, and she has to pause, in the act of pulling it over her head, to smell the merest trace of perfume. After clothes, it's boots. Her phone in her pocket. Down the stairs to the front closet, where she slips into the first jacket her hands touch: Gail's winter coat. Car keys from the bowl on the table. A check to make sure she has her phone. And then gone, locking up behind herself, and out into the cold darkness that is Toronto in February. Seven minutes, flat.

It's a dance. She could do it in her sleep. Sometimes she does, in dreams when all she wants is to wake up, but it takes Gail's soft hand on her cheek, the other woman's sleepy murmurs to bring her back out of the trance. If only tonight were one of those dreams.

It's a dance. One in which Gail is an unwitting partner, an invisible, but altogether real partner. She dresses around Gail. She stumbles down the steps with one hand outstretched in front of her, reaching for someone who isn't there. She checks as she pulls the door closed, always expecting to see Gail there, stumping along behind, never the most graceful of dancers. And she starts her car with cold fingers, surprised when there is no one beside her to take her hand and blow on them, smiling slightly and looking away as though embarrassed at such a public display of affection in the privacy of their own car. A dance. Taking place in and around her thoughts of Gail. A dance – one she hates – one she never thought she'd need to learn. The one that haunts her.

* * *

She hates hospitals. Hates them. Strange, seeing as how she spent so much time in them at one point. But now she works in a morgue, in a lab, away from people who are sick. Because that's the thing about hospitals – they're full of sick people, sick people who are still alive. Still alive, but on their way to dying. And she's never liked this stage in the process of being human.

When they're already dead, their bodies already empty of whatever it was that made them truly human in the first place, then she can speak for them, understand them, care for them. But not here. Not in a hospital where everyone and everything exists in such a strange, twilight zone of maybe alive, maybe dead. All the hustle and bustle of a hospital. All the comings and goings. She hates it.

She's spent more time in this place throughout the past four years than she did during her entire time in medical school, than she did as a three sport athlete all through high school and then again through college. Doctor's visits, broken bones, med rotations. But this, these past fours, this has been the most time she's ever spent here. On this side of things. The side of four am dances alone in the darkness of her bedroom and the near-empty streets of the city. The side of idling. Of waiting. Of wondering. Of salt-stained blue chairs smelling of stale cigarettes, and coffee that more resembles sludge than dark roast. The side of the lover. The wisher. The hoper. The healthy. Four years, and she's spent more time here, surrounded by cops, than she did throughout the first twenty odd years of her life.

It looks, at first glance, as though the entire Toronto police force is crowded into the waiting room, milling around, more uncomfortable in the antiseptic whiteness than she is. She hadn't realized how much cops hated hospitals. How much they feared them. If they were there, it was either for a victim, a witness, or one of their own. No. Cops did not like hospitals. Especially not these cops. Not 15 Division, which had been having a run of bad luck lately – a six year run of bad luck. A never ending run of bad luck, Gail sometimes used to say while she and Holly were sprawled out safely on the couch together, a bottle of wine being passed between them.

"Oliver?" She finds him easily, sitting silently next to Chris, whose eyes are trained on the linoleum floor as though if he only stare hard enough, he'll be able to transport himself out of this place.

"Holly. Holly, hello." And he stands, reaching for her elbow, to lead her away from Chris, who still hasn't looked up, as Dov slides easily into the seat he's just vacated. She knows this step, too.

And this one, where Traci meets her eyes from across the room, Andy leaning against her, both of their eyes red-rimmed and puffy. They're officers. But they're people first.

"So," Oliver says, once they're free from the rustling, silent crowd. "So," and he doesn't look at her for more than a second at a time.

She wonders idly if he thinks it's strange that she isn't crying. But, surely he must know by now that crying comes later, crying is not a step for this place, not part of the dance. Not yet.

"So," third time's the charm. "There was a bomb."

And she's thankful he doesn't try to sugar coat it.

"A bomb." The word sounds foreign in her mouth, dirty metal.

"A bomb, yes. At a hotel."

She looks automatically at the TV set on the far wall. Live news coverage. The Archer Hotel. Downtown Toronto. If she squints, she can just make out the scroll at the bottom. Death toll unknown, but thought to be closer to 15 than 10. Three suspects. Two dead. One in custody. Continuous shots of the hotel, on fire, walls crumbling, windows shattering, people rushing to and fro in front of the news camera, cops, an older gentleman wearing silk pajamas that are torn and missing an entire sleeve. Satisfied this is real, not some horrible hallucination or dream state, she turns her attention back to the officer in front of her.

She likes Oliver. She really does. He's a good guy, sweet and funny, and he looks after Gail. She knows he does. He looks after all of them, even if they aren't technically his rookies anymore.

"Peck," he sighs, runs a hand through his thinning hair. Sometimes she forgets how much older Oliver is. Nights like tonight, that's when she is reminded. "Gail… She was inside when it went off. Fourth floor. With some other officers. We got them out. ETF was on the scene in nine minutes. And we got them out." Short sentences – easier to manage.

She nods, as though this is all routine, as though the things he is saying make sense to her, as though the ringing in her ears is nonexistent.

"We're not exactly sure what happened yet. Or why it happened. But we're working on it. We got one of the guys. Sammy's got him down at the station now. Everyone's working on it."

She wants to ask the question he's hovering around, bumbling his way towards. But they've been here before, and the steps lead her in a different direction first. "Everyone else?"

"What?" And he looks honestly surprised at her voice. "Yeah. They're all fine. Collins got a nasty burn, but he's being looked after. And the rest of them are fine. Just fine."

Repetition. Another way of making it easier.

"They'll be fine."

They. Fifteen Division's rookies. It's always them – as the 'they.' The 8 of them – including Traci – it's always them. She nods, turning back to the television, running her eyes aimlessly over the crowd. This next move is Oliver's, and he executes it flawlessly.

"Holly?"

She nods, but doesn't stop her scanning. She knows the one person she's looking for isn't going to suddenly appear, navy uniform blending in to everyone else's.

"Holly. Gail is – well, she's kind of in rough shape."

Another nod. Except she suddenly can't feel any part of her body except her chest. And the ache that is the pounding of her heart feels as though it's an ache of emptiness. An echo of a mere memory of what her heartbeat should feel like. The shadow of something can be as painful as its actuality, when you know it's all you're ever going to have again.

"And she won't let them treat her."

Wait. That's not how the dance goes.

"She won't let go," he sounds apologetic again. Apologetic and exasperated and worried.

"Let go?" The '_of what' _goes unstated yet clearly understood.

He's holding onto her arm again, physically steering her towards the door marked "No Entrance. Hospital Personnel Only." Her feet move as bricks in mud. The whoosh of the automatic door sounds like the whoosh of the blood, once more pumping fiercely, in her ears.

Oliver hasn't answered her question. He hasn't –

When they come around the corner, the first thing her tired, over stimulated brain recognizes is that Gail's normally pristine blonde hair is matted with dirt and debris and what appears to be dried blood. The second thing she notices is that her girlfriend is sitting upright in a chair in the hallway of the hospital as doctors and nurses walk crisply past her still form. If she's sitting up, that must be a good sign. The third thing Holly notices is the way her stomach is suddenly in her throat and the oxygen levels are a bit lower than normal, making the air seem thin, and each breath a struggle. Oliver's grip on her elbow tightens and she is grateful for him, for his strength, and his unwavering devotion to this family of cops and loved ones that Fifteen has gathered around itself.

The fourth thing she notices is that Gail – well – Gail is crying. Her face, covered in a mix of dirt and blood, (who's blood?) is marred by clean tracks, rivulets of tears running down her cheeks, highlighting the extreme paleness of her already pale skin. Tears. Gail is crying. Silently. Not even seeming to notive that she's crying in public, where anyone might see.

Holly has seen Gail cry three times in the past four years since they've been together. Once when she slammed her finger in the car door. Those tears were accompanied by such an impressive array of curse words, Holly felt herself grinning, despite her girlfriend's obvious distress. The second was after dinner at Gail's parent's house, when Elaine spent the entire night asking why her daughter had yet to make detective. And insinuating, not so subtly, that the officer was letting her personal life get in the way of her career – an action on par with murder in the Peck household, and more disappointing than failure. That night Gail had cried tears of frustration in the car the whole way home, and Holly had pretended not to notice until she pulled into their driveway, parked, shut off the engine, and turned in her seat to lay the softest of kisses against the shining tear tracks on her lover's face. And the third time she'd seen Gail Peck cry had been the night she'd told the officer that she loved her for the first time. After which she found her girlfriend crying on the couch at three in the morning, wrapped in Holly's oldest sweatshirt, her hair unkempt, her eyes swollen, her nose running. That time, Holly had pulled her close and whispered it again. And again. And again. Until Gail's tears slowed and her breathing slowed. Holly didn't stop telling her in fact, until the other woman's body relaxed completely and she was certain Gail was asleep, there in her arms.

But all of those times had been private and shuttered, and over so quickly that sometimes Holly wondered if she'd only dreamed ever seeing tears fall from those blue eyes.

Gail is crying. Her shoulders still. Her breathing even. But the tears on her cheeks are clear and bright and call Holly to her more than any sound ever could. She looks at Oliver, confused and unsure and wondering why she was called with so much urgency if Gail is sitting up and clearly in at least some state of control, of consciousness.

"She won't let go," he repeats, as though it's obvious.

And when she turns back towards her girlfriend, already two steps closer to Gail, she sees it. And she stops dead. The fifth thing Holly notices about her girlfriend is not the large scrape above her eye, not the burn clear on her left arm, nor the way Gail's eyes are seeming to have trouble focusing on one spot on the stationary floor for longer than five seconds at a time. No.

The fifth thing she sees is that Gail's arms are wrapped tightly around something. Around a tiny body. A child. A girl. No more than three. Her legs locked around Gail's waist, her small arms coming up around the officer's neck, her tiny face buried in the woman's neck, just as silent, just as still. The fifth thing Holly notices is that her girlfriend is holding this tiny human, this child, as though her life depends upon it, as though holding on is the most important thing in the world, regardless of the blood oozing down her forehead, the concussion she has most likely sustained, the bruises covering her arms.

"She won't let go." And Holly stands, rooted in place, in a hallway full of doctors and nurses, with Oliver Shaw behind her. And her girlfriend - the woman she loves, the woman who has been dancing with her for the past forty minutes without know it – is holding onto a child as one might a life preserver, as one might the most precious thing in all the world, and she is not letting go.

* * *

**AN: **Thoughts? Should I continue?


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Y'all are too kind! I hope this chapter continues to please. There's no intensive plan for this story, just an overall idea. So let me know what y'all are thinking. These two ladies are ridiculously difficult to write for. And I'm loving the challenge of constantly discovering new things about them as I go. Enjoy.

* * *

"_People die and we're just supposed to get over it. Move on. Act like we're not missing this huge piece of ourselves. People die. I know that. I do! I just – for just one minute, I wanted everything to stop. I wanted the people to stop talking. And the earth to stop spinning just for a second. Because people die, Holly, and I- oh, God. I don't know how to move on."_

Gail's voice is ringing in her ears. That day – so many months ago now – when Holly had been called, this time to 15 Division, by Sam Swarek, to find her girlfriend motionless on a bench in the women's locker room, her badge clutched so tightly in her hand it left marks for the rest of the day. That had been the day Gail had delivered a lethal shot for the first time. It was a good shoot, a clean shoot – Sam told her before she walked in. SIU was merely a formality. Officer Peck would have her gun back in no time. Some guy, crazy off of crystal meth, waving a gun at Andy and Gail during the last call of the day. And when he'd fired at them, at Andy really, clipping her shoulder, Gail had fired back without hesitating, because that's what you do when your partner gets shot. You have their back no matter what.

And that night, in bed together, Gail wrapped so tightly around her that breathing was nearly uncomfortable: "People die everyday. Every goddamn day." The hopelessness there. The frustration. Holly had been at a loss as to what to do, how to help. She worked with death all the time. It could feel like her constant companion, her partner, in more ways than one. But faced with the confusion in her lover's voice, the emptiness, she'd been unable to put a face on it, to explain its presence among the land of the living. Unable to kiss it away, to cuddle it away, to reassure it away. Death had slept with them that night. And in the morning it had still been there, hovering. For weeks. And Holly had felt like a failure as she watched Gail struggle against this unseen force. Push. Get pushed back. Every action creates an equal and opposite reaction. This had been the reaction. The kick back.

Slowly. So slowly sometimes Holly wanted to scream at it to leave them be, just for the day, just for an hour so she could take Gail to the batting cages and they could laugh as they had the first time they'd gone, when Gail had thrown the bat in fear and confusion and hilarity, and Holly had realized she'd never met anyone so dichotomous, so wonderful. She wished for moments like that one. But, slowly, Death receded, until it was no longer in their bed, until it was forced to the corner of the house, peering through the window during parade, watching over Holly's shoulder as she examined the evidence from another of its conquests. Until, eventually, little by little, life returned, and Death was once more relegated to the future tense.

* * *

She can't move. She can't breathe. And this feeling of loss, of confusion, takes her back to those months last year. But Death isn't here. Is it? Somewhere in the hospital, yes, but not here. Not ten meters in front of her where Officer Peck sits, straight backed, silently crying with a child cradled to her chest.

"Officer Shaw, I'm sorry, but you know you can't be back here." Someone is speaking. Someone unfamiliar. She can see blue scrubs, a white coat, brown hair in her peripheral vision, but she can't tear her eyes away from the woman in front of her to look at him head on.

"Of course not. Of course not, Doctor." Oliver seems duly apologetic. "But this is Gai-Officer Peck's –" he doesn't know how to say it; the words are getting lost in his mouth, fumbled, like marbles on the playground.

"Dr. Holly Stewart," it's time to speed this along, get some answers. She needs the answers. "I'm Dr. Holly Stewart," she repeats and sticks out a steady hand for the man to shake, finally looking at him, "Gail's girlfriend."

He has an honest face, a kind face, and she is thankful for that.

"Dr. Stewart. I'm Matthew Jameston."

His grip is firm, and she feels a bit more solid after he lets go, as though he's stabilized her.

"She's not letting go…" It is a question more than a statement.

"No," and he lets out a gentle sigh, as though it is not five in the morning and they are not discussing such an odd sight.

"Is she – the child – is she -?"

"She seems to be fine, from what we can tell. We'd like to check her lungs for smoke inhalation, but other than that, she seems unhurt."

Holly nods. Good. That is good news. She likes good news. She forces a strained smile. Sometimes she catches Gail staring at her over the kitchen island countertop, a slight, puzzled frown on her face. "How come you're so smiley like that when there's nothing to be happy about?" she'll ask. "It's weird." And that's how Gail says she loves her at seven in the morning, or after a twenty-four hour shift, or in the middle of a crowded, bustling grocery store the night before Thanksgiving. But sometimes the smiling helps. Sometimes it just…helps.

"She's sleeping now," he's explaining. "The child."

"Ella," Oliver puts in, and Holly would jump if she weren't so heavily rooted to the floor. "We think her name is Ella. Staying on the fourth floor with her parents, Jesse and Kristine Marx. They – um – well, they're unaccounted for right now. We don't think – that is – we don't think they made it." The way he says it, painfully, forcing the words out, but necessarily.

Made it. What a strange way to talk about death, about life. Like it's a race. Or a challenge in one of those reality game shows that take place throughout the world.

"We're not really sure what happened up there. Without Peck's statement…"

"Ella Marx," the doctor says softly. "Thank you. She wouldn't tell us. And Officer Peck refused to allow us to get close enough. Well the chi- Ella- she was crying and afraid, and she appeared unhurt. Officer Peck said she'd done a thorough check –"

"She has her paramedic certification," Oliver says softly. "She would know."

"Right."

Holly remembers nights of practicing with Gail. Going through the proper protocol for reviving a patient in the field. Treating burns. Inserting an IV. Over and over again until the officer felt confident she'd pass with flying colors. Not because she was a Peck, but simply because that's who Gail was. Is. Always so determined to be the best. Dedicated.

"Well, Ella is sleeping now. But Officer Peck refuses to let go. She won't let us treat her."

This is against protocol, Holly wants to interject. She wants to ask why the system has been allowed to get so far off track. Why no one is following the steps they're meant to be following. The timing is off, out of sync, she can't get her bearings. Maybe if it would just stop. Just for a second.

"We considered sedating her, for her own safety. We've got to treat those lacerations. The burn. It isn't too serious, but it should be dealt with sooner rather than later. We think her right wrist might be broken as well, and holding the girl that way, it must be extremely painful. We considered it –"

"No. No," Holly shakes her head, speaking for the first time in what feels like hours, her mouth dry as cotton balls. "No sedation."

Gail hates needles anywhere near herself. She moans and groans every year when Holly drags her to get her flu shot. She says it's stupid; that she never gets sick. And she hates anesthesia. Holly knows why, even after five years, she knows why Gail can't stand being out of it that way. She didn't know Gail then, when Jerry was killed, and 15 Division's bad luck really started, but she knows Gail now. And her girlfriend would not accept sedation, not willingly, not without a fight. Even if her body was broken into fifteen different pieces. Drugs, yes. Alcohol, most definitely. Sedation…No.

"Dr. Stewart. We _need _to treat her. Cops are stubborn," he looks at Oliver apologetically as he says it, but the officer at her side simply waves the statement away.

"Can't argue with the truth," he murmurs.

"But, Officer Peck appears to have a concussion. We need to assess the severity of it. We need to at least be able to speak to her."

Gail isn't even letting them speak to her. Hot and cold. "Yes. Ye-yes of course." Wasn't she asleep, warm and cozy in her bed, just two hours ago? And now she's here, surrounded by sick people and cops and the harsh glare of the hospital lighting. And Gail is here, refusing to let go of a child, a child she's known for less time than it takes Holly to convince her to go for a run on the weekend.

"Gail says kids are germy." She laughs, but it sounds false, even in her own ears. "She says they're annoying and dirty and sticky and rude."

"Peck's rude," Oliver says roughly.

She laughs again. But the tears are still slipping down her girlfriend's cheeks, and her arms are still clenched tightly around the tiny sleeping form of a child pulled from a bombed building.

The bomb. She forgot about the bomb. And she wonders what happened in there. On the fourth floor. How Gail came to have this child in her arms. What happened to the child's parents. How it is that Ella Marx can lose her parents at three years old.

"Yes. Yes, she is."

"Doctor Stewart?"

"Gail doesn't like children. She really doesn't."

It was Christmas time – their first one together – and Gail was in the process of threading cranberries, something Holly had wanted to do but hadn't had time for in the rush that was the holiday season. Except now Gail was doing it, grumbling all the while and pricking her finger with the needle every other berry. But doing it, nonetheless. "Do you like kids?" she'd asked out of the blue. Holly hadn't known what to say. "No," was her immediate response. But, "They're good for trick-or-treating, I suppose," was what she went with. "They're gross," Gail had responded, only pausing to stare at her girlfriend's weird answer for seven seconds as opposed to the normal ten. "We had one in the station today. Noelle brought Olivia in. She was all sticky and whiny. So distracting," Gail is whining, sounding much like the child she's describing, but she's not. Not really. And Holly knows, with a sudden clarity that is striking in its brilliance, that Gail Peck would make a wonderful mother someday, even if she purports to hate the tiny humans.

"She doesn't even like kids," but the words sound meaningless in her ears.

Gail is loyal and devoted and one of the best officers in 15 for a reason. She'd protect a child in danger come Hell or high water. No matter what.

She can't smile anymore. It's time to pick up the dance again. The music isn't going to stop. There's no time just to breathe. There is no time to simply be still, to take it in, to reflect. There is only action and reaction.

"Doctor Stewart."

It doesn't even sound like her name anymore.

"If there's any way…"

"I'll do it." She doesn't have privileges at this hospital. Hell, she spends her days working on dead people. But, "Get me a kit. Supplies. I'll need to talk to her."

Oliver puts his hand on her shoulder, in solidarity, in respect, in support, before stepping back. "I'll be out, waiting with everyone. You'll let us know, Holly?"

"Of course. Oliver, I-"

And he's back, folding her up in his arms. It is surprisingly comforting to have this moment of contact, of father-like affection. His uniform smells like smoke and sweat. She prepares herself. That is what Gail will smell like. This. And blood.

"You take care of our girl, alright? You take care of her."

"I will. I promise." Division 15 is a family. More than anything else. And they'll be out there, milling around, trying not to get too close to the clean white walls or scuff up the buffed floor, waiting. They'll wait, all night. She takes one last deep breath, and steps back, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

"Doctor Jameston," Oliver turns his attention to the professional. "How's our Officer Collins doing?"

"We'll get you what you need," the man murmurs to her quietly, before following Oliver back towards the waiting room, providing an update on Nick as they walk. It's because Gail is a cop, that's why they're being so lenient with her. But Holly is grateful all the same.

She knows what the two men will face when they go back through those sliding doors, the expectant faces, the exhaustion, which will be there to greet them. That is part of the dance. A step a bit further along, one that she has yet to catch up with.

She turns back around to face the silent figure at the end of the hall.

Hot and cold: that's Gail in a nutshell. Sarcastic. Dry. Fierce. And fragile, more fragile than anyone is meant to know, behind the ice blue eyes and white, pale skin. Holly had been so thrown by Gail at first, the only thing she could do in response was try and throw the Officer off just as much. It'd worked. Oh, how it had worked. And Holly knew about the fragility, she knew about the fear, and the insecurities, and she loved them, all of them. Hot and cold. Yes. But, kind and giving and truthful. It was part of the fun in loving Gail – the challenge, the thrill, the honesty. Gail never needed protecting, no, she made it perfectly clear that she was capable of caring for herself. But, Holly was good at taking care of people without them really knowing it. She'd taken care of her mother after her father died when she was nine. She's good at it. And Gail had let her in, slowly, but surely, until Holly discovered the thing about Gail, the secret thing, the thing people weren't normally allowed to know. Gail needed someone to love just as much as Holly did. They protected each other. Give and take. That's how it is with Gail. And it was as new for Holly as it was for the sarcastic police officer at first.

Give and take.

Every action…

Holly doesn't get mad. Not often at least. And when she does, it's more frustration than anything else, usually solved by going for a run, heading to the batting cages, working through an autopsy. But she's mad right now. She's mad because this is becoming too routine, this call from Oliver, the hurried dressing in the dark, this hospital with these people. She's angry because Gail has gone off script. They're supposed to dance _together _and Gail's left her fumbling along, alone, in the dark.

Gail is holding onto a _child. _And she's crying. And she needs medical attention. And she's quite clearly dancing to something other than the normal routine.

Holly frowns, studying her from afar. Gail hasn't made any sign that she knows Holly's there. She hasn't looked up from the floor. She hasn't moved. Gail is often all action. But, seeing her there, so still. It looks as if she's been carved from stone.

And, with a rush, Holly isn't angry. She's tired. So tired. And the feeling of being, once more, within a dream intensifies. She won't wake up in her bed with Gail's blonde hair splayed across her pillow. She won't wake up to cold feet against her legs or an arm thrown haphazardly across her stomach. She's awake. There's no escaping this.

It's a new dance, with new steps. But Holly's a quick study.

She takes one last deep breath and makes her way down the hall, approaching the seated Officer as you might a wild animal, afraid of spooking something sweeter than yourself, something more innocent and in need of assistance. She approaches Gail, as Gail approached a three-year-old child not four hours ago, easy and slow, without removing her gaze for even a moment. Ready and able.

Protect and serve. And she will, just as Gail had done, is still doing. She will. Even if the steps are new and it takes her awhile to find her footing. Protect. And serve.

* * *

**AN: **Thoughts?


End file.
